Places I'm Visiting: Japan again

For the second time this year, I find myself in Japan. I visited in April with recreation mostly in mind. Now, in the oppressive heat and humidity of September, I'm here because my father in law, now 94 years old, is ill and not expected to live much longer. I wanted to see him before he dies. It was a hastily arranged trip. I arrived the day before yesterday. Afflicted not only by the heat but also by jet lag, it still fees a bit surreal to be here. That said, the place is familiar. I always find it easy to adjust. It feels a bit like stepping on to one of those moving walkways at the airport – a pull at the moment of transition, a momentary loss of balance, but then solid strides at a new pace. 

Unexpectedly, on my second day here, I was invited to help harvest grapes in a small vineyard on the island of Omishima in Japan's Inland Sea. I spent the morning picking clusters of Chardonnay. Japan is not a friendly place for Vitis vinifera, the wine grape vine. It is too rainy and too humid. Making wine successfully here requires various interventions not required in the dry climate I grow grapes in in Northern California.

The vines are trained in the cordon style but high above the ground. My vines at home are trained with their lateral branches at about 36 inches. The lateral branches here were at my eye level, the grape clusters hanging just below. The high training keeps the developing fruit away from ground moisture after rain. The rows of grapes are covered with transparent plastic stretched over frames to keep rain off the leaves and grape clusters. In addition, frequent use of ant-fungal agents appears to be required. Despite these efforts, there was considerable rot in the clusters we picked. Much of the time it took to harvest about a ton of grapes was occupied in removing bad grapes from the clusters one by one before dropping the remaining clean grapes into the collection bins. The pickers used a handy tool that was a pair of shears on one end and a set of tweezers on the other, the latter for removing bad grapes from the clusters. Later in my trip, I saw grapes being grown in Shimane Prefecture, on the Japan Sea side of the main island of Honshu. All the grapes I noticed there were being grown in greenhouses. 

We tasted three wines that the proprietors brought along, a rosé of Merlot and Muscat Bailey A, an unoaked Chardonnay from last year's grapes, and an "orange wine" from Delaware grapes. Delaware is a table grape, but the Delaware was rather good. On the nose, it was extraordinarily fruity, smelling simply of fresh grapes (which usually isn't a good sign in wine), but it turned out to be quite dry, free of excessive grapiness, and nicely balanced.  Later I tasted another Muscat Bailey A wine from this winery that had been aged 18 months in French oak. While it was a bit acidic, it was reminiscent of a Pinot Noir. I think with a little bottle age, it might even pass for a Burgundy. Most Muscat Bailey A wines I've tasted in Japan in the past have been modeled on Bordeaux wines, so this was refreshingly different. In any case, It was fun to spend a morning with people dedicating themselves to trying to make good wine in difficult conditions.

We were among about eight volunteers helping out. Omishima is about an hour away from the town of Hojo (now part of the city of Matsuyama) where I was a high school exchange student in 1977, now 48 years ago. A couple of the people helping out turned out to be from Hojo and, in the course of chatting while we worked, it became clear that I had met one of the volunteer grape pickers those 48 years ago, when I was 17 and he was about 13. Wandering around Hojo in October of 1977, a few days before the annual autumn festival in the town, I had come across a group of boys polishing the hardware on a danjiri (a wheeled, portable shrine used in the festival) and practicing their drumming. One of the boys had called me over and let me bang on the drum a bit. The man I was chatting with, harvesting grapes beside me, told me that he was that boy. I don't remember the encounter as well as he does (having been the only caucasian in a town of 30,000 people, I stood out. I didn't always know people who knew me, or at least knew of me). I don't recall drumming, but I do remember the boys polishing the hardware. Small world.